


The Sound of the Sea

by 0hHeyThereBigBadWolf



Series: Tales of a Dragon and His Prince [13]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Do Not Re-Post To Another Site, Dragon Merlin (Merlin), Dragonspeak, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Pet Names, Political Alliances, Possessive Behavior, So Married, but definitely different, only slightly different
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:33:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28886907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf/pseuds/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf
Summary: Arthur has made certain that Princess Mithian knows they are meeting for an alliance of politics only, no marriage involved, but dragons can't help but be possessive of their treasures. Especially when it involves such a...unique visitor.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Tales of a Dragon and His Prince [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1737112
Comments: 20
Kudos: 311





	The Sound of the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> NOT DEAD YET!!! Mithian is a BAMF of a princess and I needed more than two episodes of her.

"I still do not understand why she has to come here."

Arthur chortles and rolls over to drape himself over the warmth of his dragon, resting his cheek on warm skin-scale without opening his eyes. "We need to keep our relationship with Nemeth friendly. Their fleet is far larger than ours, and just about all the trading we do across the Strait is done through them," he says, lips brushing against warm skin. Moving his head slightly, he scrapes his teeth across the ridge of one shoulder blade. "I've made it clear in our missives. Princess Mithian knows that marriage is not an option. This is politics, nothing else."

Merlin rumbles under him. "Politics." The disdain in his voice is thick enough to walk on.

"You know, I've gotten marriage suits before, and you've never been quite so aggravated." Arthur opens one eye to a slit, though from here, all he can see is the back of Merlin's hair and his nape, coloured with a shimmer of blue-purple. "What sand's under your scales?"

Merlin turns his head on the pillow, one eye rolling back to look at Arthur. "I do not want you anywhere near a siren's get, not even a royal one."

"A _what?"_

The warm body shifts under him, and Arthur has to push himself up on his elbows to give Merlin room to roll over, amber-edged eyes looking at him with disbelief. "You did know that, right? Please say you knew she was a merrow."

Arthur blinks.

"Oh, _vogt,"_ Merlin groans, dropping his head back on the pillows. "Move, move, let me up." He swats Arthur away and sits up, the sheets twisted around his legs. "Do not tell me that you didn't know you are making bargains with damned merrow," he says flatly.

Reaching up to scratch at his jaw, Arthur asks, "What are merrow?"

"Oh, my—" Merlin flops back onto the bed, drags a pillow over his face, and lets out a string of muffled words into the cushion, pressing it down with both hands. After a moment, he sits upright again, staring down at him. "The late queen of Nemeth was a merrow, you _dolt._ A maiden of the sea, a siren, a mermaid. They can make themselves appear human when they want. Which means this Mithian is one as well."

Arthur blinks at him. "How do you know that?"

A snap of the fingers lights the candles in the bedchamber, and Merlin rolls out of the bed and crosses over to Arthur's desk, yanking open one of the drawers. There is a rustling of parchment before he reemerges with a folded sheet of parchment, bringing it over to the bed. Arthur recognises it as one of the missives from the princess, confirming her impending visit to Camelot. He unfolds it and holds it out, pointing to the wax stamp at the bottom of the page beside Mithian's signature, bearing the seal of Nemeth—a pair of crossed tridents before a tower. The wax itself is green, but Arthur knows that on the crest proper, the tower is white and the tridents gold upon a field of sea-green. "Do you actually know what this is?" Merlin asks.

"The seal of Nemeth?" Arthur ventures, uncertain of what else it could possibly be.

"Yes, _and?"_ Merlin stresses the word; when he gets no answer, another exasperated sigh leaves him. "Dagda Mor. That is Manannán's Watch, you git. And the trident is the sign of the merrow."

Arthur tilts his head, gazing at the seal. "Is it a lighthouse, then? I always thought it was a tower," he muses, then frowns. "Wait a moment, how do _you_ know all this? Nemeth isn't a new kingdom, this crest is ancient."

Merlin climbs back up onto the bed, setting the letter on the cabinet beside the bed. "I read books, first of all. You remember those, don't you? Those square things full of paper with writing on them?" he teases, reaching out to ruffle golden hair.

Rolling his eyes, Arthur bats him away and pulls him back down by the waist, leaning himself up against Merlin's side. "Alright, alright, enough out of you. I'm listening, so do enlighten me, O wise dragon of mine," he chortles. Long fingers slide into his hair, scratching against his scalp with blunt-pointed nails, and he closes his eyes, leaning back into it.

"Nemeth has always been ruled by the merrow, ever since the kingdom was formed," Merlin informs him, his voice taking on the steady cadence he uses when telling Aithusa stories. "Anyone who knows about them, it is easy enough to see it. That's how the kingdom was first formed, in truth. An alliance of pirates and merrow staked claim to the shore. The captain wed a siren, and they became the first rulers. Merrow throw true through the mother's line, which is why Nemeth has always allowed daughters to inherit, not merely sons."

That isn't exactly the way Arthur remembers the history of the five kingdoms, but if there's anything he's learnt, it is that history is written by the victors. He had once thought the Purge was a great battle his father had fought against an insidious evil, not the decimation of an entire people.

"The late queen was a siren," Merlin goes on above him. "She wed Rodor to keep the line from becoming purely human, and so Mithian is also one, which is why I am not quite so keen on having her here."

Arthur tilts his head back slightly to look up at him. "Do you think she would try to use her…magic on me? Is it magic?"

"Of a sort. It is a natural magic, more like my own. And I don't know that she would, I've never met her. But she damn well might, and I do not like that." A deep rumble underlies his words, a thrum of a growl from low in his chest, and the nails against his scalp scrape a little harder than is comfortable before relaxing, smoothing over his hair.

"So, what does a siren's magic do?" Arthur asks, leaning his head into Merlin's hands to encourage further petting.

"I don't know exactly, I've never seen it, but from what I've heard, theirs is a power of compulsion. If they can overwhelm your will, they'll be able to compel you to do what they wish. You, they might not be able to control so easily, stubborn as you are, but they might still exert some influence over you."

"Do you think she would do that with you here, though?" It doesn't sound terribly wise to him, trying to give challenge to a dragon in his home.

"Not if she values her hide, no."

Arthur reaches up and back, curling his fingers in the back of Merlin's hair, applying pressure to bring dark blue-gold eyes down to him. "Merlin, do not set the dignitary of another kingdom on fire."

"I make no promises."

The closer the royal visit comes, so Merlin's temper shortens in proportion. The rest of the household have taken to treating him more as a royal consort than a fellow—it is one of the constants of the universe, servants miss nothing—and it very nearly shows, the way they damn near jump to obey. Arthur would swear one of the maids nearly curtseyed before she caught herself. On the one hand, even Arthur cannot complain about the state of the castle, as he's never seen preparations go so smoothly, but on the other….

"All you're missing is a riding crop to brandish at the slackers," Arthur murmurs, darting in to kiss the corner of Merlin's mouth before he's swatted at to be still.

"Mm."

"I mean it. If you wind yourself any tighter, you'll start breathing fire."

Merlin fixes him with a hard look and yanks the laces of Arthur's collar chokingly tight.

"Hey! Stop that." Wedging his fingers under the collar, he works it back loose again. "I'm only saying I've never seen some of them jump like this before. Relax, Merlin. Relax. It is going to be fine, I promise. She isn't going to try anything."

"You do not know that." There's a rasping growl under Merlin's words, like the scrape of a whetstone down the edge of a blade.

"If she is a merrow, then she should notice magic, right? Then she'll notice yours once she sets foot past the gates, and I imagine she'll be able to smell you the moment you stand downwind of her," Arthur reassures, reaching up to smooth his palms over Merlin's upper arms and shoulders, feeling the tight muscles bunched under his touch. Merlin has a sense of smell to best a bloodhound; he's been able to name every person Arthur sees in a day just from contact scent alone, even smell changes in his mood on his skin. "She'll be surrounded on all sides by us and ours. She'd be suicidal to try."

Merlin doesn't say anything, but that means he isn't arguing, which also means he's thinking about it.

Leaning in, Arthur presses his nose into the soft join of Merlin's neck and shoulder, nuzzling into the worn-soft folds of his scarf. _"Er-miriik."_ Yes, alright, perhaps he isn't above a bit of…physical bribery to get his way, and he knows full well that speaking Drakine is the best coin he has.

The rumbling in Merlin's chest levels, smooths out into the beginning of a purr, and a warm huff of breath stirs Arthur's hair. "I know what you're doing. Don't think I don't, saucy little minx."

There's something he never anticipated being called in his entire life. In another life, he might have laid out whoever said it. Now he just smiles and tucks his hands around Merlin's waist. "Don't know what you mean." He stays where he is a moment longer, but this time for himself, breathing in the smell of sweetgrass and sunbaked rock. "Will you wait for us in the council hall?" Merlin's back muscles tighten under his hands again, and Arthur tightens his grip slightly. "Please. You need to settle, and I want to see if she'll blink when it's just her and I. And this way, you can be waiting for us when we come in. Be all…lurking and dragony."

"Dragony?" Merlin repeats, sounding torn between amusement and offence.

"You know what I mean." Leaning back, he smiles at Merlin, slipping both hands in Merlin's jacket to pet his flanks. "Now, am I presentable yet or not?"

His dragon rakes his gaze up and down Arthur once, then hums thoughtfully, reaching up to start plucking at the laces at his collar again.

Arthur rolls his eyes, exasperated. "You know, for as much as you've done this, one would think you'd have learnt how to—" He cuts off with a choked gasp as Merlin fastens his mouth over the hollow of his throat, drawing at the tender skin with sharp teeth. He has to lean his back against the bedpost, toes curling in his boots. Alright, so perhaps he has a weakness for the biting. There are worse vices to have.

When Merlin withdraws, blowing softly over the damp skin, there's a spark of amber in his eyes. "There," he murmurs, a rumble to his voice, and he does up the fastening of Arthur's collar again, pulling them closed over the mark.

"You're rather pleased with yourself now, aren't you?" Arthur asks, pulling himself back upright, catching his breath again.

Merlin only smiles, smug creature.

"What did you bribe Merlin with to get him to wait inside for this?" Gwaine mutters in an undertone as they watch the princess's party ride into the courtyard, the sound of hooves echoing off the citadel's high stone walls.

Arthur wishes they weren't in ceremonial maille; with Gwaine in rank and file with the knights behind him, he's at just the right height to drive an elbow right back into Gwaine's breadbasket. He doesn't bother to answer, either, knowing that Gwaine is like a fire, he'll keep burning as long as he's fed. And Gwaine absolutely does _not_ need to know that Arthur has promised Merlin a night at the falls in Elmet in order to make him acquiesce. Even thinking about it makes the love-bite on his throat seem to ache a little, though that may just be his own imagination. It's a good thing his tunic has a high collar.

The escort halts.

"Knights of Nemeth, Camelot welcomes you and extends the hand of friendship." In the expectant quiet, his voice has a faint echo.

The green-clad knights part to admit the Princess between their ranks. One knight, the captain of her guard judging by the gilded braid on his collar, holds the bridle of her palfrey as she dismounts, settling the skirts of her ivory gown before reaching up to lift the patterned veil covering her face.

Arthur studies her as best he can without being rude. She's beautiful, certainly. Fine-boned and fair as a lily, contrasting with dark eyes and dark hair of indeterminate length, coiled up in a golden caul and crowned with a gold tiara set with seed pearls and small emeralds to match her necklace, a white fur shawl draped over her shoulders. She doesn't seem much different than any other woman, aside from being exceptionally lovely; Merlin had said merrow could appear remarkably human if they wished. "Princess Mithian, you are most welcome," he greets.

"Thank you, Your Majesty." She curtsies to him, inclining her head just enough to acknowledge him as the higher ranked sovereign. Sun catches in the small emeralds and pearls set in her tiara, viridian and eburnean. "I have heard much about you, and you are more handsome in person than reports suggested."

Oh, it is a _very_ good thing he convinced Merlin to wait inside. "Thank you," he replies, slightly bemused. Her voice is just as human as the rest of her; Arthur wonders if Merlin might be wrong this time.

"Are we to stay in this chill all day?" she asks, a gentle teasing in her voice, a small smile playing at her lips.

"Forgive me." He extends a hand to her, and she curls her fingers around his, squeezing gently.

Nothing about her changes. There is no flicker of gold in her dark eyes, no shift in any part of her appearance, and yet, when her skin touches his, cool and faintly clammy, Arthur can smell salt and sun-warmed sand, hear the susurrus of the surf and the moan of wind between rocks. Distantly, he can hear his own voice declaring, "Tomorrow, there will be a great feast to welcome our worthy friends," and he can see the gathered crowd is applauding, but his ears are full with the sound of the sea.

He would've shaken off her hand if he could, but he knows he cannot, not before the eyes of everyone. A part of him is half-tempted to tighten his grip on her fingers until he feels the small bones shift; he doesn't know how strong she is, though. She might well break his fingers in return. So instead, he turns and offers his arm to lead her inside. Mithian slides her arm through his; she stays touching his skin, however, fingertips resting on his wrist just below the cuff of his sleeve. He had always thought sirens used their songs to enthrall men.

By the time they reach the council hall, the ocean is so thunderous in his ears he can scarce hear his own pulse, and even that is melding into the steady rise-and-fall of surf, and there's an ache forming at the base of his skull. Salt coats his tongue, sharp and stinging. He cannot see Merlin in the hall, and unease stirs in the pit of his belly for the first time, though he knows his dragon will surely be close by. They are alone now, and he could shake her off, pull his arm from hers and step away…but why should he? It would not do to be rude.

The air warms slightly, and a stir of movement from the opposite side of the table draws his gaze. He can see Merlin there, eyes narrowed slightly, lips moving, and yet there is only the sea.

Mithian's mild smile breaks into a look of astonished disbelief. "I should have known! A Pendragon and a Dragonlord, surprise of surprises." Her voice seems to come from someplace much further away than beside him, but she is all he can hear, and he thinks he can hear the laughter of sea birds in her voice. "Small wonder I keep smelling incense."

Arthur sees Merlin's lips move again, yet hears nothing. Stalking closer, Merlin circles around the end of the table and grabs Mithian's other arm, blunt-pointed nails digging into her silken sleeve; the instant they touch, Arthur can hear again, though everything is muffled beneath the rolling crash of waves. "That is _enough._ Mind yourself, salt-maid," he warns in a voice like grinding stone.

"Forgive me." Mithian's arm withdraws from Arthur's. The noise of the sea quiets, the smell and taste of salt fading. "I meant no offense."

"Then stop that and speak plainly before I acquire a taste for roast fish." He yanks out the chair closest to her without ceremony. "Sit."

Mithian laughs then, an unexpectedly gleeful sound, and this time Arthur knows he isn't imagining the sound of gulls, that high, bright crying. She takes a step back from Arthur, shakes out her skirts, and curtseys with head inclined, the same courtier's bow she had given Arthur in the courtyard. "Only if you sit with us, _Drakkosviseyn."_

Even as Arthur thinks, _That is not how you say it,_ Merlin snorts, "Your pronunciation is atrocious. My name is Merlin. Call me by it."

She flashes white teeth in a grin that is almost too sharp to be natural. "Yours is a hard tongue. _Teanga salainn_ is more…"

"Fluid?" Merlin prompts, brows raised.

"Quite," Mithian chortles again as she takes her seat.

Arthur looks between the two of them, wondering what in the hell has just happened and whether or not he should be worried about it. However, he doesn't bother asking, as he knows the answer he gets will make no sense to him, and instead places a hand on the back of Mithian's chair, applying just enough pressure to tilt it back the slightest bit. She looks up at him, a faint half-smile on her face, and he realises that is her mask, the calm, empty expression every good courtier learns to wear. "Attempt that again, and you will be leaving this citadel and this kingdom, and not you or any of your men will set foot over our borders again," he informs her. Camelot and Nemeth have been allies for longer than Arthur has been alive, but he will not be enthralled by anyone. He's well within his right to cast her out now for even making the attempt.

The small smile eases away into something more genuine, a wry, self-depreciating twist to her mouth. "I understand, Your Majesty, and I apologise," she replies. "I shouldn't have been so forward, but…I've heard quite a lot about the indomitable Pendragon will. I suppose I was curious match myself against it." Her gaze slides past Arthur towards Merlin, and it seems as though she is still curious about matching herself against _him_. He does not think it's anything to do with attraction. More like a warrior sizing up a potential contender before a melee, wondering which of them will come out the stronger.

Arthur glances between them once again as he takes his own seat on the other side of the table, relaxing a little when Merlin sits beside him, one hand coming to rest warmly on his thigh beneath the table. "And how did I measure up?" he prompts.

"Seeing as how you knew me beforehand, it is hard to say precisely, but it is all I could do to keep you holding my arm. I could compel you no further, and now I doubt I could make you to do even that. Very impressive."

"Is it?"

"A viscount in Nemeth once rebuffed my father's hospitality before the court," she informs him, almost conversational in her tone, but then Mithian's smile takes on a sharper edge, a predatory gleam in her eyes, which have gone darker with her power, like the black depth of deep water. "He suddenly found it fit to attend the next feast in his wife's smallclothes."

It should be intimidating, but instead Arthur finds himself laughing at the mental image it conjures. Suddenly, it doesn't seem quite so bad that she'd only made him hold her arm. "Well, I'm suddenly grateful to have inherited my father's obstinance," he answers. "Now, Princess, before we begin, tell me. Do you like wine?"

"Indeed."

"Good. I have an Aragonian red I've become rather partial to, and I always find talking out negotiations goes more smoothly with wine." And he finds that tongues wag more readily when thoroughly soaked with wine, and spirits certainly do reveal true character. Granted, if her tolerance is anything like Merlin's, it will take the better part of a cask to even make her slur her words.

Merlin arches his brows at him. "Not too smoothly, mind you. I'll not be carrying you back to your chambers again."

Arthur glares at him; he's sorely tempted to kick him under the table. "That was _once,_ and it was the first time I'd tried it."

"Mm-hm."

"Oh, hush, would you, and go get the wine."

The corner of Merlin's mouth twitches, giving away his humour as he pushes back from the table. He makes to leave the hall but stops at the door, leveling an amber-tinted gaze at Mithian once more. "Roast fish," he says flatly, and then he's gone.

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. "Gods' mercy," he groans. "Forgive him, highness, he's—"

"Oh, I _like_ him," Mithian laughs, clapping her hands together in glee as she sits back in her chair. "And I can hardly fault him. I didn't even know his kind were still around. If I had known, I wouldn't have even attempted to enthrall you. Only a fool goes near a dragon's treasure. And speaking of treasure, here." She reaches behind her neck, under her hair, and her necklace slithers loose into her hands. She holds it out to him.

"That isn't necessary, truly—"

She keeps her arm extended. "Please. As token of Nemeth's goodwill and my apologies, hm? I remember that from my mother's lessons."

Arthur extends a hand; she doesn't touch him this time, merely lets the necklace slide into his palm. Curious, he plays it out between his fingers. It's surprisingly cool considering she'd just removed it, and he wonders if perhaps merrow simply run colder just as dragons run hot. It's a collar of pearls, three strands on slender gold chains, with cabochon emeralds placed between them and smaller stones dangling from the bottommost strand. "Thank you, highness. It's beautiful," he murmurs. Aithusa will adore it; pearls are her favourite, and it is Merlin's pet name for her— _lai hieba,_ little pearl.

Mithian inclines her head slightly, then reaches over the table to pull the maps of Camelot and Nemeth closer, unrolling them and placing small weights at each corner to keep them flat. "Now, shall we begin before the wine makes these borders blur and we end up claiming a part of someone else's kingdom?"

"Excellent idea."

"You didn't even set her on fire. I'm proud of you," Arthur remarks, dangling the necklace from his fingers. Aithusa coos in delight, grasping at them with her foreclaws. She doesn't grab hard enough to break the chain or to scratch the jewels, of course; she wouldn't damage her treasures.

Merlin chuckles into the nape of his neck, lying curled behind him with an arm over his waist, petting his flank. "Trust me, it was a close thing. I nearly broke her arm when she wouldn't let go of you. Could you hear me at all?"

"No. The moment she touched me, all I could hear was the ocean," he answers. "I could even taste salt. Oh, and what's _teanga salainn?"_

"Salt-tongue. It's the language of the sea. Merrow, selkies, that sort, they all speak it."

Arthur laughs as Aithusa finally succeeds in tugging the necklace from his grasp. Squeaking victoriously, she grabs one end and rolls herself over so it's draped over her back, the ends draped down her sides and dragging beside her like the hem of a too-long cloak. She looks up at him and peeps; a sense of inquisitiveness tickles along his thoughts. "Very lovely," he assures, tickling under her chin, and she nips his fingertip playfully.

"I do like her better for that," Merlin remarks, chin hooked over Arthur's shoulder as he watches Aithusa strut across the bed with her new treasure. "Did you tell her about Aithusa?"

"No, of course not. She offered it as an apology and a token of goodwill. She also said something about it being in her mother's lessons. What's that about?"

"The custom of offering tribute gifts when making peace? That began with dragonkin. When clans were at war, if it ended, they would give a gift taken from their clan's personal hoard." Merlin reaches further over him to tweak the end of Aithusa's tail and says something in rumbling Drakine; she peeps at him, then takes the clasp of the necklace in her teeth, scuttling down off the bed with it.

Arthur can hear her claws clicking softly under the bed, the faint clinking and tinkling of her treasures being moved around as she places the necklace in the middle of it. As soon as she's a little bigger, he imagines she'll want to wear it as her own necklace, and even when she outgrows it, he doubts she'll ever be rid of it. Maybe she'll put it on one of her horns. "Negotiations will take a while longer," he says as he turns onto his back, looking up at Merlin. "Two or three days. Hopefully the weather will hold."

"You would've gotten further tonight without the wine," Merlin points out, amusement layering his tone as he settles himself beside Arthur, curling an arm beneath his shoulders, coaxing Arthur over onto his chest.

"Yes, yes, I know." There's a tug on the edge of the blankets, and then baby-soft claws are scrabbling over his side. Arthur barely represses the urge to squirm because damn it all, it _tickles_ when she does that. Aithusa snuggles down between them, curling around herself, holding the tip of her tail in her foreclaws. He's still half-afraid that one night they're going to smother her, roll over on her in their sleep; Merlin insists she'll be fine. Dragonets are sturdier than human children, and if they do lay on her, she's strong enough to squirm free.

Arthur feels Merlin's lips against his hair, warm breath ruffling his hair as his dragon muses, "You know…I think I like her."

"Mm. No roast fish?" Arthur mumbles into Merlin's shoulder, eyes closed; wine always makes him drowsy.

"No roast fish."

"Good." He yawns. "I like her, too."

**Author's Note:**

> Drakkosviseyn—Dragonlord (lit. Dragon's king)  
> Er(-)—prefix added to the beginning of the word to show possession, "my"  
> Lai hieba—little pearl  
> Miriik—fate/destiny (affectionate, not literal)  
> Vogt—a Drakine vulgarity, "fuck" (not the physical act)


End file.
